


kent parson drives into the desert

by Verbyna



Series: kent parson poems [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Character Study, Experimental Style, Gretchenfrage riffs on love, M/M, Poetry, by which i mean i stream-of-consciousness'd kent parson poetry, it has motifs!, it's also not any of the series updates y'all were waiting for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-12 02:22:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15329610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbyna/pseuds/Verbyna
Summary: it takes the power of 565 horses to drag him away &horses can run but they can’t forget that they are horses





	kent parson drives into the desert

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by, and inferior to, the [tim riggins poems](http://gulfcoastmag.org/journal/26.1/tim-riggins-speaks-of-waterfalls/) of nico alvarado. my creative writing prof from hs may be teaching at stanford now, but i still wish i'd had mr. alvarado instead. mr. alvarado would get it.
> 
> (for the #hellsquad, who put up with my kvp headcanon every single day, and for the salt squad, who know who they are.)

i.  
_kent parson drives into the desert_  
with eyes as clear as his dad’s on bad days.  
only clear against red, fixed like his pupils are holes in stone  
someone carved into a person to be looked at  
and touched, shaped by strange hands and  
sharp things and only good to hold flesh up against  
and think flesh may be worse, but at least  
it’s moving. warm to the touch.  
his dad said  
don’t do it  
don’t climb on that pedestal  
so obviously kent did.  
it takes the power of 565 horses to drag him away  &  
horses can run but they can’t forget that they are horses.  
kent parson drives into the desert  
& doesn’t try to outrun himself.

ii.  
_kent parson eats cereal out of the stanley cup_  
and that’s all anyone will confirm.  
at least he didn’t take a shit in it.  
at least he didn’t kiss a boy first  
or  
break any rules  
or  
pretended to know what the hell he was doing,  
which he does, off the record, until he doesn’t.  
kent parson was hungry one morning.  
kent parson was spotted on a college campus  
and the next day carl caught a fish and put it in the stanley cup  
and kent parson regretted his choices.

iii.  
_kent parson thinks of the atlantic ocean_  
as little as possible, he’d rather drown in it  
or drink it down or turn his back to it and face land  
that all looks the same, except for rock formations,  
which kent parson likes to look at  
the way the sky looks at the atlantic ocean but really  
looks at itself.  
like that.

iv.  
_kent parson dreams the same dream twice_  
but it doesn’t come true.  
the smallest dream he has.  
he has a small heart.  
a small hole punched through  
by something sharp.  
a small sharp fear  
slid through  & stayed there  
that the sky is falling and his body is failing  
& if the blade is pulled out his chest will close up  
& he calls it love because it’s in his heart.  
kent parson dreams of the hand on the hilt  
once  
twice  
& he still calls it love because he was right  
and

v.  
_kent parson poses for sports illustrated_  
more than any body in hockey.  
looks warm to the touch.  
looks better still than in motion  
with and without the blade or the heart  
or the cup or the lollipop he sucks  
to remind someone of something  
stupid. a small fear no one laughed through.

vi.  
_kent parson picks a lock in jersey_  
when he’s twelve years old and his sister  
who is the better skater and stays that way  
when she goes to college and stops returning calls,  
which comes later,  
which is not even a story but the empty space  
where a story should be.  
anyway, the boy, the lock -  
right now they’re twelve and fifteen and a boy left her  
and kent parson picks the lock of a rink in new jersey  
and they circle until they forget they are bodies in motion  
and become motion and when the lock is found open  
it’s already too late.  
the other story has already started.  
you know this story.  
the one that drags him away from the shore  
and the campus he would’ve belonged on,  
maybe, if he hadn’t felt the weight of his body leave his body,  
centrifugal force,  
his sister’s bobby pin sliding in,  
freedom becoming another word for ice  
and blades  
and breaking rules for good reason.

vii.  
_kent parson watches tape on his best friend’s couch_  
but is that really his friend?  
whose tape?  
rimouski is boring and kent parson  
will remember the boredom and the couch  
but not the tape.  
nor the small blade, not when it slid in,  
right here on the couch, faded red  
under the hand about to grip a hilt  
and break him a little open.  
his dad said not to climb on the pedestal  
unless he was perfect.  
obviously, kent did.  
he thought he couldn’t  
wasn’t  
but he was missing a finishing touch.  
a faded couch.  
some tape.  
that hand  
and a dream small and specific enough that, on balance,  
it became impossible.

viii.  
_kent parson wakes up in vegas on the fourth of july_  
and eats his fucking cereal.  
doesn’t kiss a boy.  
doesn’t break the rules  
or pretend he knows what he’s doing.  
the world is on fire  
his body is failing  
and it takes the power of 565 horses  
running so fast that they forget they are horses  
to drag him somewhere full of rocks,  
to fix his fixed eyes the way the sky looks at the atlantic ocean  
and only sees itself.

**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr @soundlikepenance


End file.
